


Corruption Noir

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Mob, Desperation, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Morality, F/F, Guns, Kissing, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Politics, Professionalism, Prohibition, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-05 05:08:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11006640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: An old piece, in the process of a complete rework.Set in 1920s New York, Sam doesn't want to be a cop and follow in his dad and brother's footsteps - after an argument one night, he finds himself stumbling into the life of the Prohibition mob, and finds himself more fascinated by his work than he has been by anything else in his life.





	1. The Man With The Cigarette

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Corruption Noir](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051337) by [DictionaryWrites (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/DictionaryWrites). 
  * Inspired by [Original Dreamwidth Post, With GIFset by Mooseleys](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/293625) by Original. 



Sam gives a soft groan as he pulls himself out of bed, drawing the curtains open and letting the sun stream into the room. There are a few clouds in the sky, but it isn’t quite overcast, and for October it’s pretty damn nice.

Leaning down, Sam grabs a shirt from the back of his chair, pulling it on and beginning to button it up. He half-heartedly rubs his eye with the heel of his hand, trying to push the sleep away, and he glances up when he hears the rap of Dean’s knuckles on his door.

“Sammy? You up?” Sam closes his eyes, sighing, and as he pulls on his pants, he hops toward his bedroom door and pulls it open. There Dean is, in two thirds of his police uniform with a dishtowel slung over his shoulder and his toothbrush sticking out of the side of his mouth: Sam meets his gaze evenly.

“Yeah, Dean,” he says in a mild tone, “I’m up.” Dean grunts and heads out of the room, heading down the stairs at speed. As Sam brushes his own teeth, he can hear Dean moving around downstairs – before he’s even rinsed out his mouth, he hears,

“C’mon, Sam!” Dean’s voice rings up the stairs. “We gotta be at the precinct!” Sam spits harder than is necessary into the bowl of the sink, and he looks at his reflection in the mirror. There are slight shadows under his eyes, but even with those he looks younger than he wishes he did, even though he’s nearly twenty one now.

“Just head out without me, Dean. I’ll spend the day at Bobby’s – I had some law theory I wanted to look up, and he’s closer than the city library.” He can’t hear the roll of Dean’s eyes, but he hears his irritated grunt and the slam of the door, and he can easily visualize his brother’s expression in his mind. He hears the door slam, and as he walks into his room to grab his boots, he sees the blue-clad figure of his brother making his way down the street, his helmet held under his right arm. Dad probably went in earlier, a few hours before he and Dean got up.

John Winchester, fiercest, strictest, most efficient Chief of Police in four years; Dean Winchester, the best cop on the beat; Sam Winchester… To be determined. Sam studies his reflection a little more, wondering if the bitterness on his face is too much – next year, it’s meant to be his turn to join the force.

Ugh.

Sam pulls a sweater on over his shirt and heads downstairs, picking bacon out of the fridge and putting it on the pan to fry, slicing two pieces of bread and putting them on the grill. They don’t have a toaster. Sam knows for a fact that every other cop in the city and, actually, nearly every other house in the city has a pop-up toaster, but Dad had snapped one day that they were lazy, and that he’d not stand for one in the house.

Sam snorts to himself: he supposes that mirrors Dad’s train of thought where Sam himself is concerned.

He puts the remaining bacon back into the fridge, and he drops heavily into one of the kitchen chairs, eating breakfast with a scowl on his face that he can’t quite shake. His frown falters as he looks at the photograph of his mother on the wall, though. It’s a portrait of her on her own, a rifle balanced on her right shoulder with its butt against her hip and the top of her skirts, and she isn’t smiling, but there’s a slight quirk to her lip at the corner.

Mary Winchester had been murdered twenty years ago, when Sam was just a kid, by some local criminal when Dad was still just a regular officer – the guy now heads up one of the biggest gangs in the city, and it’s not irregularly that Dad comes home pissily saying that he wishes he could just kill a guy here and there.

It’s no real wonder, Sam thinks as he sets down his knife and fork, that Dad’s so fervent about them all being cops. He wants revenge, wants to take down the bastard, and that’s understandable, and Sam even gets it—

It’s just not really for him.

He’s never really wanted to be a cop, never wanted to take up the career. Sam’s lip twitches as he stands, setting about washing his plate and putting it away. Dean had done his own issues, and Dad’s. Dad never does his chores, but Dean does, and Sam does what he can – Dean tries to do every damn thing in the house, and Sam wonders how he gets any of the slepe he _does_ manage.

He sighs, running his hand through his hair ( _too damn long,_ Dad had snapped at him last night, but it had been half-hearted) before grabbing his wallet and heading out of the house.

Bobby and Rufus’ shop is maybe a twenty minute walk, and Sam enjoys the feel of the little sun there is on his face. Most of the men he passes by are wearing hats, but they’re out on the edge of the city here, and it’s not like it’s going to raise too many eyebrows to see a young man without one.

When he knocks on the door, Rufus opens the door, raises his eyebrows, and scowls. “You’re too tall, kid,” he grumbles, but he steps back to let Sam in – and to Rufus’ credit, Sam has to stoop down so that his head will pass under the doorframe without hitting against it. Rufus doesn’t leave the house much, if he can manage it – some people spit at him in the street, and Sam’s dad especially likes to give Rufus a hard time. He doesn’t even make it out to the _shul_ , most weeks, but Sam’s seen Rabbi Petersen come to visit Bobby and Rufus, some nights.

“Morning, sir,” Sam says.

“You call me sir again, I’ll smack you upside the head – I’ll need to grab a damn stepladder to reach, but don’t you think I won’t,” Rufus retorts, and Sam grins as he follows the older man into the kitchen. They go through this routine every time Sam comes of a morning, and every time Rufus gets a little closer to actually smiling. “Bobby! Your boy’s here!”

Sam’s known Bobby and Rufus ever since he’s been a kid – Bobby had lived out in the country before, a while away from the city, but when his wife had died he’d moved here and picked up the scrapyard. He’s good friends with Dad, although their relationship seems a little strained to Dean at times.

Bobby’s been like an uncle to Dean and Sam, even though Dad dislikes Rufus living in the house with him, but they run a pretty successful mechanic’s, mostly keeping to themselves, working on cars and stuff, and sporadically going out for groceries and supplies.

“Morning, Sam. You eaten?” Bobby is frying sausages in a pan on the hob, but Sam gives a nod of his head, and Bobby gives an approving glance in his direction. “Good kid.” Rufus moves forwards, and as he spears a sausage on a fork, he rests his hand on Bobby’s lower back to lean over the hob. Sam pretends not to notice, but he always notices.

He’d never mention it, not to Rufus or Bobby, not to Dean, and definitely not to Dean, but he knows damn well – and has known for a good few years – that Bobby and Rufus are more than widowers that share a house. He’s surprised Dean hasn’t noticed, but he guesses his brother is too focused on any women in the vicinity to think about what men might get up to, and Bobby and Rufus seem pretty well-off, comfortable, safe: they’re pretty much happy. With that in mind, Sam sees no reason to ask them about it. He knows what he knows, and he’ll keep it to himself.

“You gonna keep dropping in like this once you join the force?” Bobby drinks from a bottle as he speaks, and Sam turns his gaze away, idly looking over a bookshelf in the corner of the kitchen and plucking out the book he’d wanted. He sees Bobby and Rufus share a look out of the corner of his eye, and he hears Rufus mutter to himself about _John-fuckin’-Winchester_ as he heads out of the kitchen and out into the yard, toward the workshop.

Bobby watches Sam for a few moments as Sam drops to sit at the kitchen table, and he says, “Y’know, boy, we haven’t got enough work to hire, and if you can get a spot on the force, you’ll be set for—”

“I know, Bobby,” Sam murmurs, his voice sounding small even to him. Bobby sighs: the speech had been half-hearted, given that he’s repeated it a few times over the past few months, and Sam worries his lip under his teeth.

“Yeah, kid,” Bobby says. “I know you know.” Sam stares at the wood of their kitchen table, tracing the grain of it with his fingers. “D’you wanna work with us outside, or…?” Sam had never understood how Bobby had so many books. He has hundreds of them on the walls, mostly in English, but others are in Greek, Hebrew, Japanese, French, Arabic, German – Sam can’t even fathom speaking so many languages, but Rufus and Bobby are both fluent in at least four or five apiece.

If Sam mentions it, Bobby would just shrug off the question and say, “Oh, I get bored.” Sam knows a little French, and he knows a few words of Hebrew and Yiddish he knows not to practice around his father, but being able to study here is something else. Bobby’s house is cosy and warm, and even with the clank and clatter of metal outside, it’s just so much more calming to work in than at home.

“Can I read? I’ll help you on Shabbat.” Bobby smiles slightly as he flicks off the hob and pours the sausages onto a plate. It’s a habit of Sam’s, coming around to Bobby’s when Rufus is inside and can’t so much as flick on one of the lights, but Bobby doesn’t mind, and Rufus doesn’t either.

“Sure, kid,” Bobby gestures vaguely to the library (it’s really a living room, but they keep their radio in the workshop, and every wall is decked with floor-to-ceiling shelves) so Sam picks up his book from the table and heads in there to settle and read. He reads through the text out of obligation to Dean more than anything – he isn’t lying _that_ much, after all, if he really does read a text on law before he moves on to reading through some different books.

He eats lunch with Bobby and Rufus, and they make Sam laugh as they talk animatedly about two customers they’d had that morning – two guys who shared a pick-up and couldn’t agree on what colour to get her painted.

☾ ✩ ☽ ↤ ❂ ϟ **ＳＵＰＥＲＮＡＴＵＲＡＬ** ϟ ❂ ↦ ☾ ✩ ☽

Sam walks home with his head high, his hands in his pockets, and a smile on his face. There are posters stuck out here on the walls – one of them is for some movie showing in the town theatre, but they’re mostly political posters that paper fences and walls in six or seven feet strips.

Sam stops, examining two bigger ones that are pasted side by side. Naomi Whitman, the Democrat, stands primly, with her hands clasped in front of her belly; Dick Roman, the Republican, looks out of the poster with a creepy grin on his face. Despite always voting Republican, Dad insists there’s something off about Roman’s way of doing things, and he didn’t exactly trust the politician.

Not that Dad would ever vote for a woman, of course – John Winchester thought that women shouldn’t even have the right to vote, let alone run for office themselves. Bringing Mom up as an argument to these points ends in yelling, though, so Sam tries not to think about it too often.

When he gets home, slipping in the door, he offers Dean his smile, but Dean just clucks his tongue and turns away. Great. One of those days, then.

“Sam?” Dad’s voice is stiff and irritable, and Sam moves into the living room and leans against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets. He sees Dad’s nostrils flare, sees his eyes widen slightly at the perceived disrespect, but Sam just meets his gaze and doesn’t look away. “Where the Hell were you today?” Dad’s scowl is deep, but Sam isn’t scared of him – not today, he isn’t.

“Rufus and Bobby’s, sir. I was studying.”

“Are you ever going to just grow the Hell up, Sam?” Dad demands, gesturing aggressively with his right hand, but Sam doesn’t so much as flinch. Dad hates how tall Sam’s gotten the past few years, Sam knows, and that’s partly why Sam slouches so comfortably: even leaning on the frame like this, he’s still nearly a head taller than Dad, and it makes him _furious_. “You’re gonna be a cop. There’s no damn point wasting your time—”

“I’m not wasting my time! Wouldn’t you rather I know the laws of this city inside out? I wanna know where the lines are drawn—”

“I decide where the lines are drawn!” Sam stops short. Another night, when Dad decided to yell into his face like that, Sam would turn his head down to the floor and break his gaze, but this time, Sam keeps it, standing up straight and looking directly at Dad. He takes a step forwards, into Dad’s space, into his damned territory, and he sees him bristle. “Your mother would—”

“Don’t bring Mom into this,” Sam says, quietly. There’s a moment of silence, and then Sam turns on his heels and picks his wallet back off the side.

“Where the Hell do you think you’re going?”

“Out,” Sam says calmly, picking his jacket off the coat rack – he’d not bothered with it earlier, but it’s starting to cool down, and he throws a hat onto his head. Something in him has snapped, and he knows if he stays, he’ll just get into another screaming match with his Dad – and where the Hell will that get him? Into the damned precinct?

Like Hell.

He kicks the door open, slinging his jacket over his shoulder, and Dean appears in the doorway.

“Sam? Sammy, you can’t—” Dad pushes Dean back, not letting him follow Sam out into the street, and Sam puts his hands in the back pockets of his trousers, grinning to himself a little savagely.

“Let him go,” he hears his dad say. “He doesn’t want to be here.”

“You’re damned right,” Sam calls back, forcing his stance to remain nonchalant and casual. He doesn’t begin to storm down the street until he’s way out of sight of the house; his wallet has a few bills in it from odd jobs he does in the neighbourhood, so he isn’t completely screwed, but—

Damn it.

He wanders the streets aimlessly, not playing close attention to where he’s going or which streets he’s walking down – he knows he’s getting closer to the main hub of the city, and all he really cares about is getting as far away from his father as possible. He comes to his senses after he’s walked for at least forty minutes, realizing he’s in a part of the city he’s never been in before and trying to see something he recognizes.

There’s no landmark, no street sign that catches his attention, except—

Sam turns, looking at the door behind him. It’s painted a soft green, with no knob or handle on its outside, and with a letterbox-slit in its middle, vertically cutting through the wood. He’s seen a picture of this door – or at least, a door very much like it – before.

Speakesieves have passwords and special knocks the majority of the time, just because they’re illegal, despite the fact that most of the Prohibition laws aren’t that strictly enforced. Well, they weren’t before, anyway: in the past few years, under his Dad as Chief of Police, whips have started cracking down.

Sam takes two steps forwards, and he raps his knuckles on the door: one knock, pause, three knocks, pause, one knock. The door opens, revealing a man a little shorter than Dean, with blue eyes and a ridiculously serious expression. He wears a trenchcoat, but he doesn’t seem ready to go past Sam and into the street – he just steps back and allows Sam inside.

The place is busy, and he can hear jazz music from a makeshift stage across the room, the floor full of people dancing real close together – he’s surprised he didn’t hear the music outside, but the walls are thick, and he guesses they’re careful about it.

Sam sits at the bar, looking at the multitude of bottles lined up along the wall, brightly coloured and in different sorts of glass, like a parody of Bobby’s library. He recognizes some of the bottles of whiskey and wine, but it’s the near-beers that he really knows: Bobby had a few bottles on the side at home at any one time, and he said they pretty much tasted like beer had before the Prohibition, despite being non-alcoholic. Sam had tried one once, and he hadn’t hated the taste, so now he puts up his hand to get the barman’s attention.

He’s a ridiculously short man in a suit that’s two or three times two big for him, the sleeves rolled up right to his elbows: his tie is bright green and decorated with little wings, his eyes are gold, and his hair is slicked back. When he looks at Sam, he licks his lips, and Sam feels his heart give a little jump in his chest. “Well, hey there, kiddo, what can I do ya for?” He smirks at Sam and waggles his eyebrows: Sam feels himself chuckle, and he wonders if he should be feeling more nervous than he is.

“Uh, could I get a near-beer, please?”

“Going teetotal, huh?” The barman grabs the bottle from the side, taking Sam’s coin and then leaning on the side to fix him with an amused gaze. His eyes glitter in the dim lighting, and Sam can hear Dad’s voice in the back of his mind ( _picked up a few pansies from by the river today, should’ve thrown them in)_ , but he ignores it. “What’s your name, sonny? I’m Gabriel – haven’t seen ya around here before.”

“I’ve never been in a speakeasy before,” Sam finds himself confessing as he uncaps the bottle and takes a small sip. “I’m Sam.” He worries for a moment that Gabriel won’t be able to hear him over the music and laughter from the dance floor – he’d kind of had to strain to hear the other guy – but Gabriel must either have perfect hearing or the ability to read his lips.

“Sam, huh? Pretty name for a pretty boy.” Gabriel walks away before Sam can try to formulate some reply, and he stares down at his bottle with some confliction. He shouldn’t even be in here, let alone let a man _flirt_ with him, but—

“Hi there.” Sam turns. The smirking woman, perched on the seat beside him, has long, dark hair pinned in an artful, twisted up-do, and the way she looks at him makes Sam nervous. Not in the way Gabriel does – this woman seems almost _hungry_ , and she says, “Sam, was it?”

“Uh huh, that’s right.”

“I’m Ruby.” Ruby’s grin is a little more intent than Gabriel’s, a little less easygoing, and her eyes scan Sam’s body in a way that’s completely separated from the one or two girls Sam’s gone steady with before.

“Nice to meet you,” Sam says, as casually as he can manage, taking another sip of his drink.

“You’re a handsome boy,” Ruby says, leaning forwards: the cut of her dress shows a lot of cleavage, and Sam swallows again, a little harder than before.

“Thanks. You’re a pretty lady, but look,” Ruby leans forwards, splaying her fingers over Sam’s thigh as her hand settles on his leg. “Ah, no, look, I’m not really…” How old is she? Twenty five, twenty six?

“Thanks yourself,” Ruby says, as if he hasn’t said anything else. “Now, could I ask you a favour?”

“Favour?” Sam asks, and Ruby leans in closer. Sam’s eyes are a little wide as he meets her eyes properly, seeing how dark they are: her mouth is so close to his that Sam can feel the tickle of her breath on his lips.

“There’s a light upstairs that really needs changing. You’ve seen Gabriel, and you see me… Neither of us can reach it, and you’re just what the doctor ordered.” Sam’s laugh is relieved, and he leans away from her mouth, giving her a hurried nod even though his mouth is dry.

“Oh, you don’t have to, uh, do anything, Ma’am, I’m happy to help.” Ruby’s smile is soft and fond.

“Aw, you’re a real sweetheart,” Ruby says, and she stands. Without really thinking on it, Sam stands to follow her, toasting Gabriel awkwardly with his beer as he takes up the stairs after her. Gabriel winks at him, giving him a wave of clever fingers. Ruby takes Sam up a flight of stairs and then through a little door, showing him into an office.

Immediately, Sam looks up the electric light hanging from the ceiling – it’s out, alright, and the office is lit by the meagre light from a desk lamp. “Oh, yeah, I can change that easy,” Sam says. “If you have a bulb—”

“That won’t be necessary,” says a soft, cold voice, and Sam looks to the man who comes out from behind the desk, leaning against it. The light is behind him, but Sam can still recognize him in the dimness of the room, and his blood goes cold, his grip tight on the bottle in his hand. “Well, if it isn’t Sam Winchester… What’s a pretty little thing like _you_ doing here in the big city, and so far away from the precinct?” Lucifer steps forwards, and Sam feels Ruby take the beer out of his hand, moving to drop herself over a couch to the side of the room. Se sniffs at the beer, pulls a face, and sets the bottle on the ground beside her.

He’s heard tales of men full of more bullets than they have bones, found torn apart as if by dogs (they called them the Hellhounds), windows smashed, shops destroyed, and if Dad’s to be believed, it’s Lucifer’s fault Mom is dead.

“Light works fine, I guess?” Sam asks, breathily, and Lucifer laughs. His laugh is icy. His hair is dirty blond, and he has pink lips and blue eyes that match his laugh: he’s ridiculously pale, like he stays inside too often, and he wears a white suit with cream coloured shoes.

On the left shoe, Sam sees a spot of red, and he lets out a choked little sound, taking a step back.

He’s going to die. He hadn’t even argued with his Dad properly, and now he’s walked into the city, and the same mobster that killed his Mom is gonna kill _him_.

“Oh, the light’s just perfect,” Lucifer takes a step forward, and Sam takes a step back himself – he goes back until Lucifer has him leaning against a table on the other side of the room, his hands on either side of Sam’s hips, and he leans right into Sam’s face: Sam’s six foot four, and he’s never felt so small in his damned life. “What is it, Sam? You just decided to go for a little wander into _my_ territory? What would Daddy say?” There’s a metallic flick of sound that Sam recognizes all too well, and he feels the blade of the flip knife against the soft flesh on the underside of his chin. The smirk drops from Lucifer’s face, leaving a snarl, and he asks, “Or did Daddy _send_ you?”

“He didn’t send me, he didn’t send me,” Sam says quickly, his hands shaking, his heart pounding hard in his chest. Out of desperation, not knowing what else to say, he goes for honesty: “We had a fight, okay? I ran out of the house, didn’t really think about it, and I just happened to know the knock for the door, so I tried it, and they let me in, so I just bought a beer—” The words tumbled out of Sam’s mouth, frenzied and disorganized, and he doesn’t know what else to say, so he just trails off.

Lucifer stares at him, his eyes scanning Sam’s face. Lucifer’s eyes look like winter skies, such a pale blue that Sam’s surprised they could even _happen_ in a person’s face. “I know what that’s like,” Lucifer says finally, and with that he draws away, taking easy steps across the room. Sam stares at him, and all the blood seems to drain from Sam’s body: he falls loosely against the desk behind him, heaving in a little breath. “But boy, you’re really gonna have to make up for this sort of… _Trespass_.”

Lucifer has a predatory smile on his face, but then the door slams open.

“Who the Hell let him in?” Lucifer demands of Ruby, and she runs past the man and down the stairs. Sam hears the sound of a gunshot, a yell he recognizes as coming from Gabriel, and the smashing of glass.

The man in the doorway grins, a cigarette held in the corner of his mouth. He’s a good deal shorter than Lucifer and Sam, in a simple black suit with a deep red tie, and he removes his hat, revealing dark hair that’s beginning to recede.

“Why, no one let me in,” he purrs. He’s a Brit: Sam doesn’t know the accent well from real people, but he’s heard people vaguely like him on the radio. “I go where I please.” Beside the man is a woman in a white dress, her hair bright red and left hanging loosely around her shoulders.

“Anna?” Sam says, and she looks at him, her eyes wide, her eyebrows raising. She leans over, murmuring something in the little man’s ear, and he glances at Sam.

“I just wanted to give you this, darling,” the man says, holding out an envelope that Lucifer snatches from his hand. He rips it open, glancing over the contents before snapping something in a language Sam doesn’t recognize. The man in the trenchcoat, whose arrival Sam hadn’t noticed, says something in reply, and he disappears back down the stairs. “I don’t suppose I can take this?” The little man gestures to Sam.

Lucifer scowls.

“Oh, _go on_. What’s a pretty boy between friends?” Lucifer’s face doesn’t seem to imply that the two of them are anything like friends, and he turns on his heel, facing away from all of them.

“Get out,” Lucifer hisses, and Anna moves forwards, grabbing Sam by the shoulder and pulling him with them. From the stairs, Sam can see that the speakeasy is abruptly empty, and that a girl in a leather jacket has Gabriel bent down hard over the bar, threatening him with a shard of glass – he doesn’t seem to be too worried, and he still has a grin on his face.

“Leave him alone, Meg,” the man calls sweetly, and she drops the shard right beside Gabriel’s eye. The barman doesn’t even twitch.

Sam decides the best thing to do is remain silent as the woman – Meg – falls into step behind him and Anna, along with a few other men, and they walk as a group through the streets, with the little man at the head, smoking furiously from his cigarette.

He glances at Anna: Anna is a damned cop, the only woman on the force, though she’s not allowed to go out on the beat and keeps mostly to secretarial stuff and files organisation in the precinct. Chuck Shurley had been police chief before Dad, and he’d let a few women on the force. Anna is the only one left.

And it turns out, of course, that she’s a bent cop.

“You gonna kill me?” Sam asks as they walk. He doesn’t look at Anna’s face, keeping his gaze forwards. Anna does the same as she replies.

“I guess that depends.”

“Thanks for pulling me out of there.”

“Least I could do. I might be shooting you in an hour.”

“Fair.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Sit down,” Anna says, and she shoves him into a chair. The man takes off his hat, neatly hanging it upon a hat stand in the corner of his office and looking at his reflection in a tall mirror that hangs behind his desk and has a frosted design upon its perfectly polished glass. He reaches up, subtly adjusting his tie and stroking an imaginary crease from his jacket, and then he steps out beside his desk, leaning against it.

The décor is completely different to that of Lucifer’s office: Lucifer’s had been deep, mahogany furniture and hard, black lines. It had been severe in many ways.

This office is… Plush.

The bench beside the window is padded in red velour to match the thickly cushioned armchair that settles behind the red-tinted wood of the desk, and atop the clean, wooden boards of the ground, in the centre of the room, is a thick, fur rug.

It’s the same creamy white as the walls, and Sam wonders if it cleans easy, or if this guy just has a dozen spares in the cupboard.

Watching him lean against his desk, Sam realizes the parallels – Lucifer had leaned back in precisely the same way, had tilted his head the same way, had looked at Sam with the same mix of curiosity and a lack of care. It’s like mob bosses have to take a fucking _class_ to get going.

“What was in the envelope?” Sam asks. His legs are too long to sit in this chair without his knees being right up at an angle, so he slouches with one of his arms hanging down from the side of the chair and his legs akimbo on the ground – he’s going to die anyway, right? It’s hard to force himself to keep in the loose position, so instinctive is the need to sit up straight with his chin high in the presence of someone with such an expensive-looking suit, but he doesn’t want to come across as weak.

“I don’t think you’re in the right position to ask me questions,” the Brit says mildly, his lips twitching. Anna stands at the window, looking out through a gap in the blinds. Her face is pale, and her expression is serious. “Do you?”

“I dunno,” Sam says, and he shrugs his shoulders. Anna might have pushed him into the chair, but it was this guy that wanted him here – Lucifer is six two, six one, but this guy doesn’t have that sort of height. Sam would be surprised if he’s taller than five foot seven, and he’s not surprised he doesn’t want Sam towering over him. “If you’re gonna kill me, I might as well go out without any curiosity, you know?”

“Oh, petal,” the Brit murmurs, reaching back and taking a tumbler from his desk. Within it shines an amber liquid, and as he takes a sip from it, he walks across the room – towards Sam. “Why ever would I want to ruin a pretty face like that, hmm?”

Sam’s eyes look to Anna, whose expression is set, and then they move back to the guy. He’s right in front of Sam, now, stationed neatly between Sam’s spread ankles where they rest on the ground, and his expression is… Prim.

“I know you guys kind of go in for like, the fun, villainous stuff,” Sam says, slowly, “but I feel like it wouldn’t be in my best interest to give you reasons you should kill me.” The Brit laughs. It’s a low, rumbling sound, and it reminds Sam of the Model T in their garage that Dean treats like a favourite child.

“You’re cute,” the Brit murmurs, and he offers the glass out to Sam. He eyes it, suspiciously, but the Brit pretends not to notice – he holds the glass out closer, until the rim’s edge is against Sam’s lip, and he consents. He tips his head back slightly and takes a sip of the drink. It burns slightly as he swallows, but he knows what scotch tastes like, at least, and he does his best not to cough. Despite the burn, it’s actually really smooth – way smoother than stuff he’s had before, and he stares at the glass. “It’s Craig. Good stuff, mmm? Better than the piss you Americans drink.”

“Crowley,” Anna says. _Crowley_. What kind of name is that?

“Anna thinks I should kill you,” Crowley murmurs. “But me, I don’t even know who you are. I don’t see a reason… Do you?”

“You’re trying again,” Sam says, trying to find his footing in this odd conversation. He gets the feeling that Crowley’s enjoying not knowing the facts, enjoying talking when he isn’t sure of what’s actually happening. How certain must the guy be of the control he wields? “So I will too: what was in the envelope?” Crowley laughs again.

“I’m a new man on the scene, princess,” says Crowley, “And that means that Daddy has to play nice with Michael and Lucifer – now and then, for the _correct_ price, I run a message between the two of them. For the fun of it, you see. Plus… It does rather put the wind up them when I wander in.”

“You’re the new guy, the new— uh, you know. Boss.”

“That’s me,” Crowley leans, abruptly, grabbing Sam by the hair and pulling his head back. Crowley’s mouth is directly against Sam’s ear, and Sam hisses in pain, freezing out of instinct more than anything else, and Crowley says in a low, deliberate voice, “Now, don’t be _rude_. Tell me who you are. Now.”

“Sam Winchester,” he says immediately. “Anna thinks you should kill me because I’m the son of the Police Chief – John, John Winchester. That’s why Lucifer was in my face: he killed my mom.” There’s a pause, but Crowley’s hand remains just as tight in Sam’s hair – and maybe he should have cut it short, cut it short months and months ago. “I fought with my Dad. He wants me to be a cop.”

“And you don’t want to be a copper, I take it?” Crowley’s breath tickles in Sam’s ear, makes him shiver, makes his heart beat a little faster in his chest. He’s seen the dogs that wander around Bobby and Rufus’ place chase cats and rats, but he’s never really felt sympathy for the latter before – not before now.

“I wanna be a lawyer,” Sam whispers. “I’m smart. I mean— Not that you’re stupid or something, or that Dean and Dad are, I just mean… I’m academic, you know? I did well at school, and Dad just thinks we should all be cops because that’s what he is, and I don’t want to just live with him forever and settle down and marry some nice girl and do the whole thing all over again.” Crowley lets him go, and Sam feels the blood suddenly flow back into his scalp, pain and warmth tingling together on the back of his head.

He watches Crowley’s back as he makes his way across the room, setting his tumbler back on the edge of his desk and settling his hands in his pockets. Standing beside Anna, he looks out of the window with her, his expression neutral, and then he says, “Well, my dear. State your case.”

“John Winchester has both of those boys wrapped around his finger. Sam’s walked out before, but it’s always short-lived.” Anna says it like it hurts her to do so, like she doesn’t want to but some rule or otherwise is making her mouth talk for her. “You let him go he’ll go right back to his dad, tell him exactly what’s happened – and exactly what _I_ do for you.”

“Who says I saw anything?” Sam asks. Crowley and Anna turn to glance at him, Crowley’s eyebrow rising and Anna’s brow furrowing. “Who says I didn’t just go down by the river and sulk for a bit before heading home, huh? Who says anything happened at all?”

“It would be a shame to do something nasty to such a pretty face,” Crowley says, seeming to mull it over. “Besides, he’s so big… Disposing of the body would be an awful bother. We could use him.” Crowley is walking over to Sam again, now, and he reaches out, cupping the side of Sam’s face. Sam had expected him to have hard hands, but Crowley’s are soft as butter, with not a callous in sight. `

“Crowley, he’s a kid,” Anna protests.

“He’s not. How old are you? Nineteen?”

“Twenty,” Sam says. He doesn’t pull his face away from Crowley’s hand, but he sits up a bit straighter, and he looks straight into the other man’s eyes. “I’ll be twenty-one in May. I’m not a kid.” He can see Anna’s eyes widen, and she looks furious, but she doesn’t say anything, just bristles behind Crowley.

“You bent?” Crowley asks. Sam stares at him. Crowley’s hand is warm, but abruptly Sam’s cheeks feel warmer, and he can feel blood heating his face as he flushes.

“No, Jesus, I’m not—” Crowley abruptly drops closer, grasping at Sam’s neck, his cologne hitting Sam full-on – musky and slightly sweet, like vanilla – and he stops half an inch short of Sam’s mouth, having feigned the coming kiss. Sam’s lips are parted, his eyes are closed, and his hand is tipped back.

When he opens his eyes, Crowley is smirking, in a calculating sort of way.

“Not bent, huh?” Crowley sniggers, letting Sam go. “Please. You’ve all the pansy of a damned tussie mussie.”

“What the Hell is that?” Crowley sighs, looking vaguely about the room before shrugging his shoulders.

“An old tradition.” There’s a quietness as Crowley steps into the middle of the room, standing in the middle of his white rug and seeming to think, to consider it. He turns, looking at Sam, then says, “My name is Crowley McLeod. I would say I run about thirty percent of the _fun_ business in the city – though that’s on the rise. Consider me your… _Judge_.”

Sam’s brow furrows, and he looks up at Crowley, glancing to Anna for some kind of explanation, but he doesn’t receive one. Anna looks as puzzled as Sam himself, and Crowley says, “Make your case to me, moose. Stand up and tell me, like a lawyer would, why I shouldn’t have you killed.”

“Seems kinda immoral, Mr McLeod, sir.”

“I believe the title is _Your Honour.”_ Sam slowly pulls himself to stand, and the height difference between him and Crowley hits him immediately – he usually tries not to dwell on how much people are shorter than him, but it’s kind of hard when he has to tilt his head _down_ to meet Crowley’s gaze, so much so that his chin is nearly touching his chest. At least he doesn’t have to stop himself from getting a look down a low-cut blouse.

“Uh, Your Honour,” Sam says. What the fuck is this? The guy is nine kinds of crazy. “I can be useful. Look, I— I know the laws of this city inside out, and I’m handy. I can fix stuff, and I haven’t tended bar before, but I could give it a try. I’m good with numbers, I’m good with cars. I can speak some French, and, uh, a little Hebrew, too.” He glances uncertainly at Crowley’s face, trying to see if this was wrong to mention, but Crowley’s expression is neutral and doesn’t betray a feeling either way on Jewish people. “I can repair stuff, and I’m good with plumbing, with electronics…” Sam glances down, and then says, “And I know you have Anna, but I could, um, I guess—”

“You don’t want to spy on your father, do you? Would you say you find his method of policing moral?” Crowley’s doing a weird voice that’s more similar to the stuff Sam would hear on the radio – it’s classier, closer to the RP accent.

“No,” Sam says. “No.” He thinks of his dad talking about _pansies_ by the river, thinks of the times he wishes he could just straight up kill people, thinks of all the times he’s seen Dad angry, furious, and the times he’s brushed off certain crimes – like when some kids had smashed in Bobby and Rufus’ bedroom window, and he’d said not to bother getting a statement off Rufus. “He’s too conservative, too old-fashioned – and that’s fine, you know, for him to vote Republican or whatever, but he treats people badly. I don’t think he’s any better than Michael Novak or Lucifer, sometimes.”

“Then you’d report on your father?”

“To you? Maybe. It depends.”

“Would you forge figures? Avoid taxes?”

“Maybe,” Sam answers.

“Would you consort with Jews? Blacks? Queers?”

“Sure, I don’t have a problem with—” Sam trails off, staring at Crowley and trying to puzzle him out. “So long as people’re good, Your Honour, I don’t see a problem with ‘em.”

“You agree with the Prohibition?”

“Seems to be like people were drinking a bit too much,” Sam says. “But that’s not changed. Seems like the government doesn’t really care about people drinking, you know? Just that they want to make money.”

“Therein, my boy, lies the way of the world.”

“If you say so, Your Honour.” Crowley chuckles, and he looks to Anna. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and her expression is slightly pinched. “Thoughts?”

“What job would you have him do?” Anna says, but she sounds resigned.

“I need a secretary.”

“You do _not_.”

“I _want_ a secretary.” Anna shakes her head at him, and Crowley sighs, turning to look at Sam. “An assistant? A _protégé._ ”

“I don’t think so.”

“When she’s right, she’s right,” Crowley says, shrugging his shoulders. Leaning over his desk, he opens one of the drawers, removing a pistol. He holds it in one of his soft hands, checking to see that it’s loaded. “You know how to shoot a gun, Sam?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you do,” Crowley murmurs, his face hardening as he steps closer. Sam does his best to control his breathing – he’s seen people shot, seen the bullets hit them hard, seen the way they bleed so thickly, seen their corpses covered with white sheets and taken into the City Morgue. Crowley flicks something on the gun, and Sam closes his eyes tightly. And then he feels the shift inside his jacket, the new weight, and he opens his eyes. Crowley is grinning. “Bodyguard it _is_.” Crowley looks to Anna.

Anna seems surprised, for a moment, and then nods her head.

“You want a job, Sam?”

“You want me to be _your_ bodyguard?”

“Oh, yes,” Crowley says, his hands lingering on Sam’s chest. “With _respect_ , moose, I doubt you’d even have to do anything. You can fight, can’t you? I bet John teaches you carefully.” Sam frowns slightly.

“Do you know him? My dad?”

“Hardly,” Crowley murmurs, nearly scoffing. “Have we an accord?”

“Are you crazy?” Sam blurts out, and Crowley lets out a loud, short laugh. “No, no, but like— I’m just some guy off the street. My dad is the damn police chief – how do you know I won’t just kill you the second your back is turned? You can’t just hand me a gun!”

“See?” Crowley says, grinning slightly. “He’s thinking of security already. With me, Winchester.” With that, Crowley plucks his hat up and just starts walking, and Sam has to abruptly move to follow him: Crowley makes his way down the stairs of the office building with an athleticism and grace that Sam wouldn’t have expected, and he takes Sam through a room full of empty desks, each with typewriters neatly arranged on their surfaces. The building itself claims to be an accountancy office, and Sam wonders how much of it is a front. Taking hold of a door handle to a room marked **SUPPLIES** , Crowley opens up the cupboard.

Sam frowns, perplexed, and then he sees Crowley lean into the room, flicking a switch on one of the far walls. After a second’s pause, one of the shelves slides back, revealing a spiral staircase.

The staircase leads them into another supplies cupboard, and Sam’s mouth drops open when Crowley opens up the door and the sound of the music hits his ears. It’s loud, but it’s slower, more bluesy than the stuff in the club of Lucifer’s: tending bar is a tall, commanding woman with deep red hair kept in a tight bun behind her head. Anna walks over to talk with her, and Sam surveys the place.

It’s definitely bigger than the club he’d been in earlier, but it hosts the same number of people, and it’s obvious to Sam that the clientele are a little richer.

“How many of these have you got?”

“Speakeasies? Twelve, across the city. Michael has seventeen, and Lucifer has twenty. Then there’s three or four run by smaller individuals who’re leaned on by one or more of us, and that’s it.” Crowley smiles at those he passes by, giving polite nods to those who’re brave enough to meet his gaze, and then Crowley turns to look at Sam, thoughtfully.

“Mmm,” he hums. “You need a suit.”

“What?”

“No one is going to be intimidated by a young man in a jumper like that,” Crowley says, picking at the fabric, curling his lip. “I’ll have something tailored for you.”

“Is this a joke? Is this some whole game you play before killing me?”

“You _are_ distrustful,” Crowley murmurs. Inexplicably, he seems impressed. “You ever had a girl?”

“ _What_?”

“Answer the question. Are you still carrying the virginal sceptre?”

“I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

“That’s a yes, then.” Crowley’s lips quirk. Sam looks from Crowley’s mouth to his eyes, but Crowley tuts, shaking his finger at Sam. “Oh, come now. That was a _feint_. I’m not about to Fitz Darcy you off into the horizon.”

“Fitz Darcy?”

“First part of your homework, then. _Do_ read some good English literature,” Crowley says. “Start with Pride and Prejudice.” Crowley leads Sam out into the street, and he actually has to focus to keep up with him – Crowley’s small, but he moves fast.

When they come to a door painted to blend in with the brick wall, Crowley steps in first, and this place is nearly empty. To the side of the room, six men sit around a table, playing cards, and the bartender says, “Oi. We’re _closed_.” Another Brit.

“What about him?” Crowley asks innocently, pointing to the single man drinking at the bar. He turns. Sam sees now that there’s a black bruise blooming on his left eye, which he hadn’t seen when he’d been pinned over the bar: it’s Gabriel.

“Who?” the bartender says. He’s skinny as a rake, with dirty blond hair and blue eyes. “I don’t see anybody.”

“Don’t I deserve a drink?” Gabriel asks mildly. Standing from the poker table, Sam sees a man in a white shirt and tight black trousers on his way to meet them, but neither Gabriel nor Crowley seem deterred. “What the Hell is wrong with that girl, Crowley? She ever going to leave me alone?”

“Like as not,” Crowley says mildly. “What can I say, darling? She likes to hurt things smaller than herself: unfortunately, they prove difficult to find.” He begins to walk across the room to meet the man, and Sam moves to follow, but Crowley shoves him toward Gabriel. “Ah ah. Daddy has confidential business.”

Sam sighs, dropping into the stool beside Gabriel, and the bartender stares at him, his gaze icy.

“Uh, I don’t suppose I could get a—”

“We’re _closed_ ,” the bartender snaps at him, and he walks across the room. Sam looks at Gabriel, who sniggers.

“Balthazar doesn’t like Americans,” Gabriel murmurs. He offers his glass to Sam: it looks colourful, but Sam takes a sip, and finds it surprisingly sweet.

“What kind of alcohol is that?”

“It’s not alcoholic,” Gabriel says simply. He shrugs his shoulders. “I can’t drink alcohol. Makes me puke like a dying cat.”

“So you tend bar?”

“It’s better than killing people.” The honesty shocks Sam, and he stares at the other man, but Gabriel just looks at him, his expression unchanging. “What’s the deal with you and Crowley, huh? You ain’t got a horse in this race, Sammy. You don’t want to get involved.” Sam shrugs, glancing to Crowley. He has one hand on his own chest, clutching the envelope between his fingers, feigning honesty, and the other on the man’s arm. He’s a bulky guy with a beard, and his shirt is unbuttoned almost a third of the way down.

“It’s better than being killed,” Sam replies.

“Aw, he likes _irony_ ,” Gabriel nods, sipping his drink and looking away. “That’s real sweet.”

“I didn’t plan this,” Sam says. “I got in a fight with my dad, had to leave the house – Lucifer would’ve killed me if Crowley hadn’t come and picked me up.” Gabriel frowns, turning to look at him, and he tilts his head slightly to the side.

“Why? What’d you do to him?”

“Nothing,” Sam says. “He’s got beef with my dad, not me.”

“Who’s your dad?” Sam considers not answering the question, but Gabriel’s the only person he’s talked to all night that doesn’t seem on the verge of killing him.

“John Winchester,” Sam says. “The police chief.”

“Damn,” Gabriel says. His tone is cool, and he says, “I’m surprised. You seem like such a nice kid, too.”

“I’m not a kid, you know.”

“Ain’tcha?”

“ _No._ ” The guy grins, glancing over to Crowley. Him and the big guy are talking too quietly for Sam to pick it up, but he can see that Crowley’s beginning to get angry. He looks back to Gabriel, who seems pensive. “What?”

“You wanna neck?”

“ _What_?”

“You heard me. It’s a quiet bar.”

“You wanna get arrested?”

“You’re the only guy here that’d ever think about calling the cops, I’d bet,” Gabriel murmurs. It’s been a night of stupid risks and being a dumbass – why not keep them going? Sam leans, hesitates, then puts his lips slowly to Gabriel’s. Gabriel’s mouth is warm and full of the sweet drink, and Gabriel pulls him closer, opening his mouth slightly. His lips move against Sam’s, and Sam lets out a breathy little sound when Gabriel draws his teeth slightly over Sam’s lower lip as he draws back.

Gabriel’s grin is positively savage, his eyes dark, and Sam feels like he can’t breathe.

“Doesn’t necking last longer?” Sam asks, surprised by how low his voice abruptly is, and he clears his throat.

“Not when your boss and little brother are watching, respectively,” Gabriel answers.

“You disgust me,” Balthazar says, sweeping from the room, and Crowley sighs.

“On the job, Sam?”

“You told me to stay over here!” The big guy moves back towards the poker table, and Crowley slips the envelope back into his pocket. “What’s happening?”

“Michael’s away on business,” Crowley says. “And much as Benny tries to convince me, I shall not be parting with anything. I’m a good postal worker. Up you get, you sasquatch. You can tell Meg _all_ about Gabriel’s lovely little lips.” Gabriel gasps like a Southern belle.

“You think I’m lovely?” he asks, the accent obscene, and Crowley sighs.

“It seems, Gabriel, that I’ve lost my chance at you.”

“You guys seem weirdly— you know, pally. Aren’t you all supposed to be killing each other?”

“Only when it’s deserved,” Crowley says. “When the boss isn’t home, they’ve no reason to posture. Besides, Lucifer and Michael can hardly be _too_ territorial, can they? Brothers can’t be choosers.”

“Brothers?” Sam repeats. Crowley grins, widely.

“What, you didn’t know? Oh, it’s a big family business, isn’t it, Gabriel?”

“Fuck off, Crowley,” is the retort. He writes something on a napkin and reaches forwards, sliding it into Sam’s pocket – his hand brushes against the gun Crowley had placed there, and he whispers, “ _Ooh_. Is that a weapon, or are you just happy to meet me?”

Sam swallows.

“Come on,” Crowley says, and Sam – reluctantly – moves to follow him out.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, hope you enjoyed that! Check [this link](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/post/160853818533/request-commission-information) out if you’re interested in making a request. I love requests, so please feel free to send them in! Commissions are open, and I do have a tip jar too, if you're interested.


End file.
